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LOS  ANGELES 


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Echoes  of 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


Copyrighted  IQ20  by 
J.  Christian  Ray 


Printed  at  the  Torch  Press 
Cedar  Rapids,  Iowa 


/3  3V 


To 

Young  Ewing  Allison 
with  deep  gratitude 

— The  Author 


This  Edition 

is  limited  to 

Fifteen   Copies  on  Japan   Paper ^ 

ten  of  these  being  for  sale, 

and 

Five  Hundred  Copies  on 

ordinary  paper 


The  title-page  and  the  vignettes  were 
done  by  Axel  T.  Bay.  Grateful  acknowl- 
edgements for  favors  extended  to  the  writer 
are  due  Charles  G.  Blanden  and  Thomas 
Y.  Croivell  ^  Company. 


C^»  *-n  ffi     ¥C\<a^      ^        A/*vCi»'i,V       <*^*<%«-» 


/ 


IT  IS  hardly  an  exaggeration  to 
say  that  thousands  of  persons, 
young  and  old,  would  gladly  walk 
across  our  continent  if  their  re- 
ward were  to  hear  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson's  living  voice.  It  is 
fairly  possible  to  imagine  how  he 
looked,  and  this  possibility  re- 
mains open  to  future  generations. 
But  speech  is  music  of  the  heart 
and  soul.  No  one  dies  in  personal 
memory  as  long  as  there  is  even 
one  person  left  behind  whose 
memory  retains  the  sound  of  the 
voice, — an  experience  which,  un- 
fortunately, is  incommunicable. 
But  we  of  the  outer  circle  of 
friends  cannot  have  this  memory. 

Page  7 


Once  only  did  one  of  the  inner 
circle  communicate  a  remem- 
brance of  Stevenson's  voice.  Mrs. 
Jenkin,  late  on  a  winter  afternoon 
in  1868,  paid  her  first  visit  to  17 
HeriotRow  and  there  found  Mrs. 
Stevenson  sitting  by  the  firelight, 
apparently  alone.  They  began  to 
talk,  when  suddenly,  from  out  of 
a  dark  corner  of  the  room,  came  a 
voice,  peculiar,  vibrating;  a  boy's 
voice,  she  thought  it  at  first.  "I 
forgot,"  remarked  Mrs.  Steven- 
son, "that  my  son  was  in  the  room. 
Let  me  introduce  him  to  you." 
So  Robert  Louis,  or  Lewis,  as  he 
was  called  at  home,  arose  and 
bowed  in  the  dusk.  And  the  voice 
went  on,  while  Mrs.  Jenkin  list- 
ened in  perplexity  and  amaze- 
ment. Afterward,  the  young  man 
accompanied  the  visitor  to  the 
front  door.  It  is  not  impossible 
that  Leary,  the  lamplighter,  at 
that  moment    happened    trotting 

Page  8 


past  "with  ladder  and  with  light;" 
nor  is  it  beyond  conjecture  that 
Mrs.  Jenkin,  as  she  walked  into 
the  street,  paused  to  take  a  good 
look  at  her  new  and  surprising 
acquaintance.  She  saw  a  boy  in 
the  first  flush  of  youth,  slender, 
almost  delicate.  His  long,  soft 
hair  framed  a  high,  narrow  fore- 
head. He  looked  at  her  with  a 
smile  which  lighted  up  his  deep 
brown  eyes  with  unforgettable 
geniality.  She  did  not  dwell  upon 
these  photographic  characteristics 
as  her  memory,  years  after,  treas- 
ured the  incident.  Instead,  she 
recalled  another,  much  more  sig- 
nificant, impression,  and  it  took 
the  form  of  a  most  happy  simile: 
young  Stevenson  "talked  as 
Charles  Lamb  wrote." 

No  analysis  of  this  reminis- 
cence is  necessary.  Knowing  what 
we  do  about  Lamb,  the  esthetic 
fitness   of   the   simile     cannot   be 

Page  9 


doubted.  It  was  a  discovery  then, 
as  it  is  to  anybody  hearing  it  now 
for  the  first  time.  Even  a  stray 
word  from  Lamb  bears  witness  to 
the  crystalline  clearness  of  his 
mind  and  thought.  No  wonder 
that  the  one  poet  who,  in  his 
youth,  spoke  as  Lamb  wrote,  in 
time  was  quite  naturally  hailed  as 
the  clearest  voice  in  Britain's 
chorus! 

This  was  the  voice  of  a  human- 
ist. 

Is  a  reference  to  Erasmus  far- 
fetched, when  we  consider  Stev- 
enson's characteristics  in  life  and 
literature? 

A  contemporary  has  given  Eras- 
mus credit  for  a  fine  voice,  an  ex- 
quisite language,  a  festive  pres- 
ence— the  same  qualities  and  at- 
tainments again  and  again  claimed 
for  Stevenson  by  those  who  knew 
him  best. 

Page  10 


Further:  Are  not  Stevenson's 
utterances  in  their  typical  forms 
obviously  comparable  to  Latin 
and  French — just  in  the  same  way 
in  which  the  Latin  of  Erasmus 
bears  an  obvious  resemblance  to 
elegant  English?  It  seems  that 
one  can  hear  almost  without  an 
effort  the  sound  of  much  of  Stev- 
enson's writing,  as  if  language 
reached  one  in  a  wordless  way, 
just  like  music  or  the  scent  of 
flowers.  Similarly,  anybody  read- 
ing the  letters  of  Erasmus  {Opera 
omnia,  Tom.  Ill,  pars  1-2)  must 
be  struck  by  the  fact  that  they 
flow  into  one's  consciousness  al- 
most without  translation. 

'Ratine  scribere,"  says  Steven- 
son in  1874,  "mihi  nunc  jucundum 
est;"  not,  certainly,  for  the  reason 
that  he  had  studied  the  writings  of 
the  great  humanist,  or  even  dipped 
deeply  into  the  classics,  but  be- 
cause  he   had   grown   out  of  the 

Page  It 


acquired  forms  of  utterance  and 
was  casting  about  for  new  forms. 
At  that  time,  also,  he  had  grown 
out  of  the  formal  mysticism  domi- 
nating his  childhood  and  youth, 
and  was  discovering  a  new  world 
within  himself  and  without.  Born 
of  a  historic  family,  reared  among 
traditions,  he  found  it  necessary  to 
detach  himself  from  history,  to 
liberate  himself  from  tradition,  in 
order  that  his  spirit  might  be  free 
to  take  up  its  own  task.  In  the 
mysterious  nature  of  things,  his- 
tory and  tradition  took  their  place 
in  his  life  once  more,  as  his  ''task 
of  happiness"  evolved. 

This  very  phrase,  ''my  high  task 
of  happiness,"  clearly  is  a  human- 
istic form.  There  never  was  ut- 
tered a  higher  ideal  for  a  poet. 
And  how  was  it  to  be  attained?  By 
the  will  "to  contend  for  the  shade 
of  a  word." 

Erasmus  himself  could  not  have 

Page  12 


stated  his  own  ideal  more  appeal- 
ingly  clearly. 

"A  lad,"  says  Stevenson  in  1881, 
''for  some  liking  to  the  jingle  of 
words,  betakes  himself  to  letters 
for  his  life."  A  dozen  years  later, 
after  having  considered  all  that 
came  of  it,  he  sums  up  the  situa- 
tion in  a  poem  to  his  father,  the 
builder  of  lighthouses: 

And  bright  on  the  lone  isle,  the 
foundered  reef, 

The  long  resounding  foreland, 
Pharos  stands; 
while  the  son,  in  his  way 

.  .  .must  arise,  O  Father,  and  to 
port 

Some  lost,  complaining  seaman 
pilot  home. 

It  is  humanistic  to  assert,  as 
Stevenson  does,  that  our  judg- 
ments are  based  first  upon  the 
original  preferences  of  our  soul, 
and  that  the  utterance  of  them  in- 
volves a  moral  duty.    "To  conceal 

Page  13 


a  sentiment,  if  you  hold  it,  is  to 
take  a  liberty  with  truth." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  would  be 
a  possible  feat  to  translate  the 
whole  of  Stevenson's  essay,  The 
Morality  of  the  Profession  of  Let- 
ters, and  pass  off  much  of  the  work 
as  a  newly  discovered  epistle  by 
Erasmus, — or,  if  the  reader  pre- 
fer, byJohnColet. — Stevenson,  on 
the  other  hand,  might  be  credited 
with  more  than  one  of  those  mar- 
velous letters  which  Colet  inspired 
Erasmus  to  write:  witness  Epist. 
219,  w^here  Erasmus  expresses  his 
deep  gratitude  to  Colet  for  setting 
an  example  in  style:  ".  .  .this  mild, 
muftled,  unaffected  style,  spring- 
ing forth,  like  a  clear  fountain, 
from  the  richest  affection,  even, 
always  the  same,  open  and  direct, 
with  modesty  ....  You  say  what 
you  will;  you  will  what  you  say." 

Finally,  the  reservation  made  by 
Erasmus  that  letters  {litterae)  did 

Page  14 


not  imply  enlightenment,  but  true 
enlightenment  calls  for  that  quali- 
ty of  letters  which  are  called 
politiores,  might  have  been  pro- 
nounced by  Stevenson  himself. 
The  lamps  of  both  men  burned 
with  a  pure,  white  light;  the  wicks 
being  trimmed  with  the  utmost 
precision.  Yet,  neither  was  a 
scholar.  Neither  would  have 
qualified  for  a  professorship  in  the 
'^humanities,"  but  both  were  born 
to  a  chair  in  humaniora. 

There  is  so  much  in  Stevenson's 
writings  suggestive  of  his  living 
speech  and  even  his  manner,  the 
gleam  in  his  eye,  the  motions  of 
his  hands,  that  he  who  loves  the 
writer  may  easily  forget  being  a 
stranger  to  the  man.  The  personal 
appeal  in  many  of  Stevenson's 
writings  is  direct  and  immediate; 
and  once  it  winds  its  way  into  a 
receptive  mind,  the  sympathy  is 
complete,  there  is  no  parting,  and 

Page  15 


the  voice,  though  quieted  now  in 
death,  resounds  in  the  very  depths 
of  one's  soul. 

This  sympathetic  understanding 
is  more  than  the  common  admira- 
tion of  a  man  who  opens  his  mind 
freely  and  tells  his  story  well.  It 
is  friendship.  It  is  giving  and  tak- 
ing. It  is  sustained  confidence, 
and  memory,  daily  meditation,  and 
continued  remembrance;  so  that 
He  is  not  dead,  this  friend — not 

dead, 
But  in  the  path  we  mortals  tread, 
Got  some  few,  trifling  steps  ahead 

And  nearer  to  the  end, 
So  that  you,  too,  once  past  the  bend. 
Shall  meet  again,  as  face  to  face, 

this  friend. 
You  fancy  dead. 
Meanwhile,  the  forward  traveler 
— loiters  with  a  backward  smile 

Till  you  can  overtake, 
And  strains  his  eye,  to  search  his 

wake. 

Page  16 


Or,  whistling,  as  he  sees  you 
through  the  brake, 

Waits  on  a  stile. 

This  picture  is  significant  of  one 
of  the  deepest  and  most  valuable 
relations  between  man  and  man, — 
it  is  this  "backward  smile"  which 
keeps  the  hearts  of  Stevenson's 
friends  warm  and  free,  the  flowers 
fresh  behind  the  windows  of  their 
homes.  All  know  how  much  he 
suffered  bodily  and  mentally.  All 
feel  for  his  sufferings  the  heart- 
ache unmixed  with  commonplace 
pity,  which  is  a  true  soldier's 
source  of  strength,  —  just  as  he, 
himself,  expressed  it  in  1881,  apro- 
pos of  an  essay  on  Keats:  "It  is  a 
brave  and  sad  little  story." 

We  recall  and  recollect  with  our 
minds  and  intellects,  but  we  re- 
member with  our  hearts.  It  seems 
that  each  one  of  us  has  a  personal 
share  in  that  "high  task  of  happi- 
ness" which  is  at  once  the  example 

Page  17 


and    the    fulfilment    of  William 
Morris's  unforgettable  lines: 
Shall  we  wake  one  morn  of  Spring, 
Glad  at  heart  of  everything, 
Yet  pensive  with  the  thought  of 

eve? 
and  the  man  who  inspires  this  ef- 
fort— that  man  never  becomes  a 
distant  figure,  a  mere  successful 
author,  a  notable  person;  he  takes 
his  place  in  the  seat  beside  our 
door,  nor  do  we  claim  for  ourselves 
any  privacy  in  which  he  is  super- 
fluous.— 

There  is  a  reason  to  believe, 
then,  that  such  of  us  as  owe  to 
Stevenson  a  desire  to  make  the 
most  of  joy  and  sympathy  would 
not,  after  all,  be  greatly  surprised 
one  way  or  the  other  by  hearing 
his  voice.  We  probably  should  not 
be  much  startled  if,  hidden  in  the 
dusk  of  a  winter's  twilight  by  our 
fireside,    he   should    speak    all    at 

Page  18 


once,  perhaps  in  a  strain  like  this: 
*'I  take  pleasure  in  the  battle, 
thank  God;  and  even  a  defeat  has 
its  honourable  side." 

Or,  expanding  the  remark: 
"And  this  one  thing  I  proclaim, 
that  the  mere  act  of  living  is  the 
healthiest  exercise,  and  gives  the 
greatest  strength  that  a  man  wants. 
I  have  bitter  moments,  I  suppose, 
like  my  neighbors,  but  the  tenor  of 
my  life  is  easy  to  me." 

Here,  as  in  the  following  pages, 
we  quote  mainly  from  the  contents 
of  unpublished  letters  dated  be- 
tween 1873  to  i^^^,  the  years  of 
stress,  strain,  and  hard  struggle. 
And  thus  we  awake  from  our 
dream  about  the  living  speech  to 
face  the  actual  presence  of  that 
which  approaches  more  closely  to 
speech  than  any  other  form  of  ut- 
terance— autographic  communica- 
tion. 

Personal    letters    forever    have 

Page  19 


been  treasured  among  the  most  sig- 
nificant relics  of  life.  Their  im- 
mediate origin  charms  even  in 
cases  where  no  personal  relation 
exists.  Anybody  can  appreciate 
the  authentic  touch  in  a  letter  or 
even  a  detached  autograph.  Some 
such  pieces  are  treasured  because 
of  their  artistic  touch  or  their  per- 
sonal appeal  of  quaintness  and 
beauty,  as  in  the  case  of  Eugene 
Field  or  James  Whitcomb  Riley, 
and  become  the  spoils  of  collectors. 
Generally  speaking,  it  is  a  noble 
aspiration  to  own  a  good  auto- 
graph. In  Stevenson's  letters  we 
look  in  vain  for  any  dainty  touches 
of  pictorial  or  calligraphic  art  ex- 
emplified by  Thackeray,  Morris, 
or  Field.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
appeals  by  his  tone,  by  the  color  of 
his  words,  his  picturesque  lan- 
guage, the  intimacy  of  his  penetra- 
tion, the  child-like  directness  of  his 
confidence.     No  letter  lacking  in 

Page  20 


one  or  more  of  these  qualities  ever 
was  penned  by  him.  Collectors 
know  it  and  very  naturally  have 
cornered  the  market  and  made  his 
A.  L.  S.  as  rare  and  costly  as  med- 
ieval script  on  immortal  vellum, 
but  students  of  language  and  liter- 
ature return  to  them  ever  and 
again,  because  they  express  a  form 
of  life  full  of  uplift,  courage,  high 
inspiration,  and  glorious  success. 
And  throughout  it  all,  one  feels  on 
the  safe  side:  Here  is  a  man  who 
never  turns  a  trick  on  you.  While 
distinctly  on  the  forum,  he  is  as 
innocent  of  its  deceit  and  jugglery 
as  a  child  is  of  Greek. 

Young  E.  Allison  deserves  high 
praise  for  pointing  out  that  Steven- 
son is  wholly  innocent  of  style. 
"Water,"  says  Mr.  Allison,  "does 
not  pool  itself  and  laboriously  work 
out  the  discovery  that  it  can  run 
down  hill.    It  simply  runs  merrily 

Page  21 


along."  Stevenson's  art  is  to  tell  a 
story  passing  well  and  to  convince 
the  reader  of  its  validity.  With 
this  assertion  belongs  another — 
probably  quite  obvious  to  us  all — 
namely,  that  Stevenson  first  con- 
vinces himself :  his  work  was  a  mat- 
ter of  conscience. 

In  1875,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
five,  he  writes  to  Colvin,  apropos 
of  his  paper  on  Poe: 

"I  say  I  am  a  damned  bad  writer. 
O  God,  you  should  see  my  article 
on  Poe  as  a  poet,  just  sent  off — 
plenty  to  say  (and  true,  I  think), 
but  /  can't  write,  God  bless  you,  / 
can't  write." 

Later  in  the  same  year  he  finds 
himself  in  the  grasp  of  a  long  story, 
which  "tends  more  and  more  to  die 
away  into  continued  rhapsody." 
But  "it's  fun  to  do,  from  this  very 
reason;  because  it's  such  fun  just  to 
give  way,  and  let  your  pen  go  off 
with  you  into  the  uttermost  parts 
Page  22 


of  the  earth  and  the  mountains  of 
the  moon." 

No  better  example  of  his  run- 
ning ofif  into  free  imagery  can  be 
found,  than  in  a  letter  dated  at 
Alois,  France,  in  1878,  on  a  dreamy 
day: 

". .  .the  rain  is  falling  far  afield, 
it  wets  a  tramp  on  the  long  high- 
ways, it  wets  the  deck  of  a  tremb- 
ling ship  at  sea.  "  What  a  compre- 
hensive vision,  what  a  wide  range 
of  sympathy!  Immediately  after- 
wards he  turns  to  himself: 

"God,  who  made  me  such  as  I 
am,  who  put  me  in  this  tumultuous 
and  complicated  scene,  and  who 
day  by  day,  in  fortune  or  calamity, 
leads  me  through  a  variety  of  deeds 
to  the  complete  possession  of  my 
own  soul  and  body,  help  me,  O 
God,  and  spare  me,  that  I  may  be 
neither  broken  in  body  nor  soured 
in  mind,  but  issue  from  these  tribu- 
lations cheerful,   serviceable,   and 

Page  23 


unambitious,  as  befits  a  human  man 
among  men." 

It  is  evident  here  that  he  has  dis- 
covered how  far  more  difficult  it  is 
to  live  from  day  to  day  in  full  pos- 
session of  tranquillity  and  contin- 
ued purpose,  than  to  rise  to  mo- 
mentary inspiration  at  intervals. 

Already  atSwanston,  in  1874,  he 
had  drawn  this  conclusion:  "There 
is  nothing  worth  much  in  the 
world  but  work,  after  all,"  an 
assertion  which  sounds  common- 
place enough,  but  soon  after  is 
complemented  with  the  feeling  of 
freedom  expressed  as  follows: 

"I  have  bitter  moments,  I  sup- 
pose, like  my  neighbors,  but  the 
tenor  of  my  life  is  easy  to  me.  I 
know  it  now,  and  I  know  what  I 
ought  to  do  for  the  most  part,  and 
that  is  the  important  knowledge." 

In  1879,  he  words  a  feeling  fa- 
miliar to  all  men  struggling  with 
their  future, — the  occasional  use- 

Page  24 


fulness  of  silence  to  souls  naturally 
communicative,  the  old  and  time- 
honored  Cistercian  remedy  against 
a  scattering  of  energies : 

".  .  .1  like  solitude  and  silence; 
to  have  been  a  w^hole  day,  and  not 
said   twenty  words,    refreshes   me 

The  body  is  tired,  and  so  is 

the  mind.  And  I  take  my  rest  in 
silence.  Above  all,  I  must  be  silent 
a  great  deal  more  than  I  used, 
about  what  really  concerns  me.  I 
can  talk  of  books  and  the  weather, 
and  cut  capers  in  words  with  the 
indifferent,  better  than  talk  straight 
out  of  my  heart,  as  I  used  to  do. 
Perhaps  I  have  more  in  my  heart; 
perhaps  I  have  been  spoilt  by  a 
very  perfect  relation;  and  my  heart, 
having  been  coddled  in  a  home, 
has  grown  delicate  and  bashful; 
. . .  .At  least,  so  it  is.  And  I  do 
not  want  you  to  think  it  cold  or 
judge  my  friendships  by  my  confi- 
dence.    If    the  oyster    shuts    up, 

Page  25 


never  fear,  it  is  because  there's  still 
an  oyster."     (1879.) 

Of  his  work,  Stevenson  enter- 
tained no  foolish  superstition.  But 
he  vindicates  himself.  Writing  to 
Colvin,  in  the  summer  of  1877,  he 
announces  an  article  to  appear  in 
Temple  Bar,  ''in  which,  for  the 
first  time  to  my  knowledge,  you 
will  meet  the  real  Villon.  It  is, 
Mr.  Colvin,  sir,  a  remarkable  pro- 
duction, not  in  the  way  of  style, 
but  in  the  way  of  taking  a  man  in 
the  fact.  ..."  The  letter  contin- 
ues: "And  look  here,  while  I  was 
full  of  Villon,  I  wrote  a  little  story, 
10  or  12  pages,  about  him."  This 
refers  to  nothing  less  than  A  Lodg- 
ing for  the  Night;  and  he  asks  a 
suggestion  of  where  to  send  it,  "for 

I  want  money  sorely Can  you 

suggest  any  place  for  me  to  hide 
this  little  bauble  in?  It  ain't  so  — 
good;  but  I  daresay  it  may  pass  in 

Page  26 


the  ten  thousand;  or  at  least  bits 
of  it." 

It  seems  often,  as  one  reads  Stev- 
enson's letters,  that  he  had  thrown 
into  them  thoughts  and  ideas  which 
were  crowded  out,  so  to  speak,  of 
his  more  formal  works, — not  with 
an  eye  to  publication,  but  to  liber- 
ate his  mind  and  set  free  his  en- 
ergy. Thus,  the  following  whim- 
sical and  surprising  declaration 
reached  Colvin  from  Bourne- 
mouth: "Everything  is  true;  only 
the  opposite  is  true  too;  you  must 
believe  both  equally  or  be  damned. 
This  is  where  you  and  Morrison 
fail ;  you  cannot  see  the  huge  truths 
in  the  lie  on  the  other  side;  you 
only  see  your  own  side;  this  is 
what  made  Torquemada,  Robes- 
pierre, and — I  beg  your  pardon — 
the  low  church  clergyman." 

This  letter  is  signed  in  quadru- 
plicate, as  follows:     R.  L.  Mc- 

Page  27 


Guckin.  Andrew  Croslynoff.  Ju- 
lius Creason.   Archbishop  Sharpe. 

Almost  in  the  same  hour  he  tires 
of  it  all  and  exclaims :"....!  want 
—  I  want — I  want  a  holiday;  I 
want  to  be  happy;  I  want  the 
moon,  or  the  sun,  or  something.  I 
want ....  a  big  forest;  and  fine 
breathing,  sweating,  sunny  walks; 
and  the  trees  all  crying  aloud  in 
a  summer's  wind;  and  a  camp  un- 
der the  stars.  Much  of  which  I 
could  have  for  the  taking,  and 
mustn't  take.  Alas!  Alas  poor 
Arethusa,  poor  Inland  Voyage! 
Poor  R.  L.  S.,  so  much  respected 
in  the  society  of  the  literati!.  .  . ." 

Stevenson's  sense  of  sonorous 
and  exalted  phrasing  developed 
with  his  knowledge  of  Latin,  and 
inspired  the  following  gorgeous 
note  written  in  Mentone,  January, 

1874:  

^^Latine  scribere  mt/ii  nunc  ju- 
cundum  est;  si  bene,  laudes  deo 
Page  28 


soli  reddendae;  verum,  ut  timeo,  si 
male,  male  sine  ullo  decenti  scri- 
bam  pudori  [pudore].  Muscovi- 
tas  semper  amabiles  inveni,  semper 
ingeniosas  amoenasque  foeminas. 
Stopconus  simplicissimus  est  et,  ut 
it  a  die  am,  brebisissimus.  Currit 
per  arduos  [ardua],  per  gramina, 
et  tenuem  voculam  ad  voces  mon- 
tium  riiarisque  semper  jungit. 
Heri,  in  certis  tenebrarum  pene- 
traliis  [penetralibus],  remoto  in 
cubiculo  suo,  multum  fertur  fle- 
visse,  quia  Principessa  flores  eum 
iterum  donaturum  more  Junonis 
vetuit.     [See  Appendix  III.] 

^^Fere  degambolatus  sum  —  O 
Lord  that's  good,  that's  a  triumph, 
it's  better  than  the  English;  there 
is  no  language  like  latin  after  all — 
fere  degambolatus  sum;  spero  tan- 
dem; et  mehercle  jam  iterum  tri- 
umpho.  Pictor  amabilis;  puer 
quoque    bonus;    tener,   facilis,   ab 

Page  29 


omnt  parte  (nescio  quomodo)  niihi 
ridiculus,  Stopconus,  te  absente, 
has  been  asking  my  advice  about 
his  pictures  and  has  taken  it  and 
thinks  it  good;  which  pleases  me 
as  I  thought  I  wanted  the  organ  of 
pictures  altogether." 

Amidst  this  frolic  of  phrase  and 
sound  we  are  reminded  of  the  se- 
riousness of  things,  as  he  goes  on: 

"I  have  nearly  finished  a  com- 
plete draught  of  Ordered  South, 
but  shall  wait  your  arrival  before 
I  transcribe  it,  lest  perhaps  it 
should  be  unfit  for  human  food." 

It  proved  a  highly  acceptable 
bauble. 

It  is  not  easy  to  over-estimate 
Sir  Sidney  Colvin's  share  in  Stev- 
enson's literary  success.  In  1875 — 
they  first  met  in  1873 — he  declares: 
"I  suppose  I  shall  take  all  your 
damned  corrections;"  and  in  an- 
other letter,  speaking  of  his  essay 
on  Fontainebleau,  expresses  him- 
Page  30 


self  "glad  to  get  my  Mss.  back, 
cum  pencillationibusy 

Nine  years  later,  in  a  letter  ad- 
dressed to  his  cousin  Robert,  we 
find  Stevenson  voicing  a  fully  con- 
scious philosophy  of  art.  Even  in 
its  mere  outline,  it  is  well  worth 
knowing: 

''In  my  art,  studies  can  be  made 
to  go  down  by  one  quality,  f  acture : 
a  person  like  Gautier — dam  bad 
art — factures  to  such  a  point  that 
people  take  simple  unadulterated 
strings  of  facts  from  him.  But  the 
right  way  is  to  get  the  sentiment 
first  and  let  the  sentiment  assimi- 
late facts  by  natural  congruity.  .  .  . 
The  tune  of  my  article  for  Henley 
is  this,  that  realism,  intent  upon 
continual  vivid  truth  to  nature, 
forces  these  facts  as  strongly  as  the 
other,  naturally  selected  and  more 
constructive  ( bildende )  facts; 
while  idealism,  intent  on  the  main 

Page  31 


concept,  takes  instead  languid  con- 
ventions to  fill  up  the  field. 

"In  lyric  poetry,  where  litera- 
ture leans  towards  music,  and 
ceases  to  be  a  representative  art,  an 
artist  remains  content  with  one  or 
two  constructive  facts  that  fired  his 
imagination.  Whistler,  coolly,  for- 
getting that  painting  must  be  a 
representative  art,  being  bound  in 
space,  tries  to  get  the  public  to  take 
the  like  from  him.  They  will  not. 
The  persons  who  "look  for  fidel- 
ity" are  not  to  be  catered  for;  but 
the  call  of  your  art  to  be  represen- 
tative must  never  be  forgotten. 
'Tis  true,  when  you  step  aside  to  a 
pure  convention,  like  drawing, 
three  strokes  suffice,  and  satisfy 
plenarily  the  most  captious.  But 
I  do  not  think  we  yet  understand 
the  living  vigour  of  a  frank  con- 
vention, boldly  forced.  Decorative 
art  has  thus  liberties  denied  to  the 
representative;  and  the  coolness  of 

Page  32 


Whistler  is  that  he  takes  the  liber- 
ties without  performing  the  duties 
of  the  decorator.  If  you  invent  a 
sublime  design,  paint  it  a  la  Whist- 
ler, and  you  will  be  a  deity;  but  to 
paint  nothings  and  diurnal  facts  in 
this  manner  is  a  simple  calmness. 
''Literature  taking  place  in  time 
and  not  in  space,  shares  some  of  the 
life  of  music,  while  as  representa- 
tive art,  it  shares  some  of  that  of 
painting.  Now  by  the  mere  filling 
in  of  the  time,  the  sound  sequences 
and  breaks,  a  study  of  a  very  tame 
kind,  quo  ad  representation,  may 
be  'endued  with  artistic  merit;' 
that  is  the  musical  affair.  Again 
as  I  said,  by  mere  vivacity  and  va- 
riety of  facture,  the  public  may  be 
cheated  into  admiration;  Manet's 
cock  and  lady  that  I  wanted  to  buy, 
is  the  game;  or  etching  as  a  paral- 
lel for  the  best  sort In  my 

art,  of  course,  there  is  one  sum- 
mity:  Shakespeare,  the  only  realist 

Page  33 


who  ever  succeeded!  that  is  who 
reached  the  clear  design  and  force 
of  the  ideal,  and  yet  carried  along 
with  him  the  bulk  and  lineament, 
colour,  and  brute  imprint,  of  actual 
detail.  And  of  course,  the  result  is 
simply  staggering.  It  doesn't  seem 
like  art;  all  is  moved  into  clearer 
space  and  puts  on  beauty;  the  ugly 
becomes  the  terrible,  the  maudlin 
rises  into  the  pathetic;  and  every 
fact,  placed  where  it  belongs,  shines 
many-coloured  like  a  gem;  the  rest 
of  us  have  to  strip  if  we  are  to 
climb,  to  refuse  not  only  facts  but 
sentiments,  truncate,  blur  and  de- 
form, make  dirt  upon  the  palette; 
and,  when  time  comes  to  fight, 
babble  an  excuse  and  give  a  subter- 
fuge. Well,  now,  look  at  this  con- 
queror in  his  early  and  unsure 
works  where  we  can  trace  the 
working  of  his  hand;  look,  for  in- 
stance, at  the  rotten,  swollen,  red- 
cheeked  rant  of  Richard  III — he 

Page  34 


is  pursuing  the  ideal  at  full  gallop! 
Yet  by  this  path  he  came  out  alone 
above  all  competitors  upon  the  al- 
pine top  of  realism.  Again,  how 
long  were  you  before  you  got  this 
freshness  and  quality  of  truth  into 
your  studies?  Yet  you  expect,  with 
a  mere  turn  of  the  body,  to  trans- 
pose it  into  the  foreign  and  far  more 
difficult  province  of  the  studio 
picture.  'Tis  all  time  and  style. 
We  are  both  idealists  born  out  of 
season,  and  infected  with  the  con- 
temporary and  inconsistent  taste." 

Some  of  these  ideas  were  elabo- 
rated by  Stevenson  in  his  essay  on 
the  elements  of  style  in  literature. 
There  is  one  element  of  writing 
which  is  mentioned  with  scant  re- 
spect and  then  dropped  with  a 
warning:  the  conscious  and  un- 
conscious artifices  which  may  at- 
tract the  uncritical,  and  even  serve 
for  popularity.    Stevenson  consid- 

Page  35 


ers  these  elements  unworthy  of  the 
serious  artist,  but  points  out  that 
they  may  be  lifted  into  a  higher 
sphere  and  serve  artistic  ends. 
These  artifices  indeed  are  unrecog- 
nized in  rhetoric,  and  thanks  are 
due  to  Stevenson  for  calling  atten- 
tion to  them,  not  as  individual  fac- 
tors of  work,  but — when  they  are 
rightly  used — as  indications  of  a 
delicacy  of  sense  finer  than  we  con- 
ceive, and  as  hints  of  ancient  har- 
monics in  nature. 

Whether  one  or  the  other; 
whether  indicative  of  a  delicacy  of 
sense  or  a  revival  of  ancient  har- 
monies in  nature:  there  are  certain 
unconscious  artifices  about  Steven- 
son's work,  which  count  as  much  as 
the  story  itself,  and  at  least  more 
than  the  choice  of  words,  the 
rhythm  of  the  phrase,  or  anything 
else  discoverable  by  the  literary 
anatomist.  One  is  brevity,  or  the 
foreshortening  of  phrases  and  peri- 

Page  36 


ods  susceptible  to  considerable  pa- 
laver. In  the  Inhnd  T :;..:-.-■.  be- 
fore the  end  of  the  SrsL  shonened, 
page,  both  canoes  are  lanzez  in 
Ant^'erp.  loaded,  manned  by  :r.e 
V^'o  travelers,  and  away  out  in  the 
middle  of  the  Scheldt.  It  requires 
precisely  twelve  lines  of  printed 
text  to  anticipate  the  departure 
from  England,  to  cover  the  arrival 
in  Belgium,  to  stow  away  pro- 
visions, to  look  around,  to  talk  over 
things,  to  be  done  with  the  launch- 
ing of  the  craft.  —  The  Silverado 
Squatters  shares  in  the  same  virtue : 
''The  scene  of  this  little  book  is  on 
a  high  mountain:"  there  you  are. 
all  ready  for  the  stop*',  as  in  a  saga 
of  ancient  times,  purged  of  all 
superfluous  detail,  foot-notes  and 
other  historical  apparatus. 

Another  unconscious  quality  in 
Stevenson's  work  is  that  his  writing 
appeals  to  the  ear  more  than  to  the 

Page  37 


eye.  No  imitation,  no  experiment- 
ing, no  juggling,  could  produce  the 
same  result.  Even  his  controvers- 
ial writings,  such  as  the  letter  to 
Dr.  Hyde,  or  the  Footnote  to  His- 
tory, are  entirely  free  from  the 
hypnotism  of  advertising.  The 
world  is  full  of  conscious  and  cun- 
ning appeals  to  the  eye,  and  shrewd 
agitators  see  to  it  that  the  masses 
are  whipped  into  line,  and  that 
goggles  are  provided  for  the  un- 
convinced. Political  propaganda 
through  editorials,  systematized 
paragraph  writing,  comic  pages 
and  slogans,  fall  amongst  us  day 
by  day  like  dew  on  a  sere  meadow. 
Nobody  seems  to  have  any  excuse 
for  not  knowing  by  heart  the 
square  root  of  the  collective  wis- 
dom. Yet,  cunning  drives  on  pub- 
lic opinion  grow  less  and  less  effica- 
cious, because  the  average  man 
consciously  or  unconsciously  seeks 

Page  38 


enlightenment  for  his  soul  and  not 
excitement  for  the  hour. 

When  it  comes  to  real  enlighten- 
ment, one  of  the  smallest  library 
buildings  would  accommodate  the 
World's  Library  of  Live  Books 
without  crowding.  In  a  handful 
of  exquisite  stories  and  heart-grip- 
ping songs  we  have  the  romance  of 
the  Middle  Ages  unfolded  before 
us;  and  no  literary  genius  of  this 
day  can  improve  upon  them  any 
more  than  a  modern  composer  can 
bring  the  Gregorian  chants  up  to 
date. 

Stevenson  unconsciously  but 
readily  fell  in  with  the  ancient 
harmony  in  human  nature,  as  he 
acquired  the  art  of  expression. 
Will  of  the  Mill  is  a  direct  descen- 
dant of  the  saga  literature. 

— ''Year  after  year  went  away 
into  nothing." 

— "Up  in  Will's  valley  only  the 
winds  and  seasons  made  an  epoch." 

Page  39 


—"Miss  Marjory,"  he  said,  "I 
never  knew  any  one  I  liked  so  well 
as  you.  I  am  mostly  a  cold,  un- 
kindly sort  of  man ;  not  from  want 
of  heart,  but  out  of  strangeness  in 
my  way  of  thinking;  and  people 
seem  far  away  from  me." 

Such  writing  hardly  can  occupy 
space  on  a  book  shelf  alongside  of 
artificial  stories  and  produce  of  a 
commercial  craft.  It  is  a  reversion 
to  the  old  art  of  telling  tales.  Will 
is  an  ancient  saga  recounted  by  a 
clear-eyed  man  rising  in  his  turn  at 
the  round  table,  by  the  King's  re- 
quest, and  opening  his  mind  natur- 
ally, and  freely.  He  speaks  as  the 
waters  roll,  as  the  winds  blow 
through  the  tops  of  ancient  trees, 
as  the  waves  break  upon  an  even 
shore.  You  could  listen  and  listen 
until  the  world  went  under. 

In  the  fragment  of  an  autobi- 
ography now  in  the  Widener  Col- 
lection Stevenson  says  of  his  fami- 

Page  40 


ly :  "We  rose  out  of  obscurity  at  a 
clap."  Could  any  elaborate  state- 
ment be  more  illumining?  The 
almost  curt  statement  abundantly 
suffices  for  all  detail. 

It  is  incredible  that  serious  cri- 
tics, students  of  organic  forms  in 
literature  and  life,  will  continue  to 
confuse  the  conscious  moulding  of 
form  with  the  historical  and  racial 
inspiration.  Any  school  can  dis- 
tribute information  about  style, 
but  where  is  the  teacher,  or  even 
the  critic,  who  will  guide  a  man, 
when  he  t7iust  write,  to  the  sources 
of  a  historical  understanding  of 
himself? 

Racial  inspiration  is  the  founda- 
tion of  healthy  dreams,  as  surely 
as  historical  inspiration  is  the  be- 
ginning of  all  true  education. 

The  poet  may  sense  neither,  un- 
til he  becomes  aware  that  some- 
body listens  to  him;  that  his  form 
of    utterance    makes    an    appeal; 

Page  41 


that,  as  one  may  put  it,  two  blades 
of  grass  grow  where  but  one  grew 
before.  He  may  not  see  this  clear- 
ly,—  he  may  be  deceived  by  the 
false  alarm  of  popularity.  But 
time  will  show.  Style  is  evanes- 
cent, a  mere  fluctuating  value. 
True  poetic  work  lies  in  the  facul- 
ty of  dreaming  and  translating  to 
the  untutored  minds  of  the  sens- 
ible. That,  as  Mr.  Allison  says,  is 
not  style;  that  is  Genius. 

Continuing  this  thought, — is  Ge- 
nius anything  but  historical  inspi- 
ration crystallized  in  an  individual 
as  insight  and  reflected  through 
his  work  as  character\ 

The  personal  character  of  Ro- 
bert Louis  Stevenson  penetrates  all 
his  work  as  an  ever-present,  yet  un- 
obtrusive exhortation  to  the  reader. 
His  essays  and  poems  yield  many 
a  moral  lesson  in  the  direct,  old- 
fashioned  manner;  his  letters  even 

Page  42 


more  so.  It  seems  that  in  very  ear- 
ly life  he  decided  firmly  for  cour- 
age, good  will,  friendliness,  a  posi- 
tive faith,  honor  with  freedom, 
sympathy  with  respect.  Even  be- 
fore his  literary  method  was  fully 
developed  his  mind  must  have  be- 
come attracted  toward  its  natural 
meridian,  for  in  all  his  published 
writings,  in  even  his  early  corre- 
spondence, we  cannot  find  a  serious 
phrase  not  befitting  the  man  who 
has  elected  the  task  of  bearing  a 
banner  in  the  strife.  How  natural, 
if  he  had  faltered  more  or  less;  if 
he  had  failed  to  show  to  the  world 
a  glorious  morning  face. 

The  exhortation  invariably  fol- 
lows a  positive  motive  or  purpose. 
No  better  evidence  of  this  is  found 
except  in  his  occasional  addresses 
at  solemn  gatherings.  Take  his 
speech  to  the  Samoan  students  at 
Malua,  in  1890:  "Do  not  deceive 
yourselves;  when  Christ  came,  all 

P^ge  43 


was  changed.  The  injunction  was 
then  laid  upon  us  not  to  refrain 
from  doing,  but  to  do.  At  the  last 
day  he  is  to  ask  us  not  what  sins  we 
have  avoided,  but  what  righteous- 
ness we  have  done,  what  we  have 
done  for  others,  how  we  have 
helped  good  and  hindered  evil; 
what  difference  has  it  made  to  this 
world,  and  to  our  country  and  our 
family  and  our  friends,  that  we 
have  lived.  The  man  who  has 
been  only  pious  and  not  useful  will 
stand  with  a  long  face  on  that  great 
day,  when  Christ  puts  to  him  his 
questions. 

"But  this  is  not  all  that  we  must 
learn :  we  must  beware  everywhere 
of  the  letter  that  kills,  seek  every- 
where for  the  spirit  that  makes 
glad  and  strong." 

Here  is  an  unpublished  letter 
addressed  to  Mrs.  Sitwell  from 
Mentone,  in  March,  1874,  ^^ 
months  before  his  essay,  "Ordered 

Page  44 


South,"  appeared  in  Macmillans 
Magazine : 

[Mentone,  March,  1874.] 
My  dear  friend, 

I  am  up  again  in  an  arm  chair 
by  the  open  window,  the  air 
very  warm  and  soft  and  full  of 
pleasant  noise  of  streets.  I  have 
had  a  very  violent  cold;  the 
chirruppy  french-english  doctor 
who  attended  me,  said  I  might 
compliment  myself  on  what  I 
had,  as  I  might  just  as  well  have 
had  small  pox  or  tiphoid  fever 
or  what  you  will ;  how,  look 
here,  with  all  this  violent  cold, 
my  chest  remains  unaffected:  I 
am  bronchial  a  bit  and  cough, 
and  I  have  mucous  membrane 
raw  over  the  best  part  of  me  and 
my  eyes  are  the  laughablest  de- 
formed loopholes  you  ever  saw; 
and  withal  my  lungs  are  all 
right.  So  you  see  that's  good.  I 
have  not  had  a  letter  from  home 
since  I  left  Mentone.  You  know 
I  was  doing  what  they  didn't 

Page  45 


want;  but  I  put  myself  out  of 
my  way  to  make  it  less  unplea- 
sant for  them;  and  surely  when 
one  is  nearly  24  years  of  age  one 
should  be  allowed  to  do  a  bit  of 
what  one  wants  without  their 
quarrelling  with  one.  I  would 
explain  the  whole  thing  to  you 
but  believe  me  I  am  too  weary. 
Also,  please  show  Colvin  this 
letter  and  explain  to  him  that 
whenever  I  can  I  will  write  to 
him;  and  that  in  the  meantime, 
if  it  will  not  bind  him,  a  note 
from  him  will  be  most  agree- 
able. 

Nothing  can  be  done  to  assist 
me:  if  I  get  permission,  I  shall 
probably  go  straight  away  to 
Germany  without  delay:  by  per- 
mission, I  mean  money. 

I  cannot  pretend  that  I  have 
been  happy  this  while  back;  but 
this  morning  I  was  relieved 
from  a  great  part  of  my  physi- 
cal sufferings  and  at  the  same 
time  heard  you  speak  more  de- 
terminedly about  your  troubles. 
For    God's    sake    carry    these 

Page  46 


through;  if  you  do,  I'll  promise 
to  get  better  and  do  my  work  in 
spite  of  all. 

Monday. 

Last  night,  I  set  to  work  and 
Bob  wrote  to  my  dictation  three 
or  four  pages  of  "V.  Hugo's 
Romances":  it  is  d — d  nonsense, 
but  to  have  a  brouillon  is  al- 
ready a  great  thing.  If  I  had 
the  health  of  a  (simile  wanting) 
I  could  still  rake  it  together  in 
time. 

Yesterday  afternoon,  I  got 
quite  a  nice  note  from  my  father 
(after  a  fortnight's  silence), 
with  scarcely  a  word  of  anger  or 
vexation  or  anything:  I  don't 
know  what  to  make  of  that. 
But  it  does  not  matter;  as  I  see 
clearly  enough  that  I  must  give 
up  the  game  for  the  present; 
this  morning  I  am  so  ill  that  I 
can  see  nothing  else  for  it  than 
to  crawl  very  cautiously  home; 
the  fact  is  the  doctor  would  give 
me  medicine,  and  I  think  that 
has  just  put  the  copestone  on  my 
weakness.     I   just  simply   per- 

Page  47 


spire  without  ceasing  in  big 
drops  that  I  can  hear  falling  in 
the  bed,  and  I  have  a  fine  gener- 
ous tic  that  makes  my  forehead 
into  that  sort  of  hideous  damned- 
soul  mask  of  bitterness  and  pain 
with  which  the  public  are  al- 
ready acquainted — I  mean  such 
of  the  public  as  know  me.  I  am 
going  to  cut  the  doctor  and  sort 
myself;  and  the  first  warm  day, 
I  shall  fly:  a  change  of  air  is  the 
only  thing  that  will  pull  me 
through.  But  the  North  is  such 
an  error;  cold  I  am  unfit  for,  I 
cannot  come  cold  at  all.  My 
spirits  are  not  at  all  bad,  I  thank 
you;  but  my  temper  is  a  little 
embittered,  and  I  have  employ- 
ed more  french  oaths  this  mor- 
ning, in  order  to  try  to  awaken 
the  placid  imperturbable  gar- 
con  de  chambre  to  the  fact  that 
I  was  angry,  than  I  thought  that 
I  had  in  me. 

It  is  curious  how  in  some 
ways  real  pain  is  better  than 
simple  prostration,  and  uneasi- 
ness.    I  seem  to  have  wakened 

Page  48 


up  to  meet  this  tic,  it  has  put  me 
on  the  alert,  I  come  on  smiling. 
It  is  so  odd ;  a  day  ago,  I  did  not 
care  at  all  for  life  and  would 
just  as  soon  have  died;  pain 
comes,  and — I  beg  pardon,  sir, 
you  have  made  a  mistake,  I 
shall  pull  through  in  spite  and 
be  d — d  to  you — that  is  my  sen- 
timent; I  also  want  to  make  it  a 
fact. 

Tell  Colvin  that  the  instant 
my  health  is  anyway  together 
again,  I  shall  prefer  to  take  to 
plays  than  to  anything  else.  I 
have  already  a  good  subject  in 
Gibbon;  or  rather,  it  was  sug- 
gested long  ago  by  the  corpus 
juris;  and  has  been  recalled  to 
me  by  Gibbon:  a  sort  of  domes- 
tic drama  under  the  low  em- 
pire; tax  gatherers,  slaves,  chea- 
tery,  chicane,  poverty;  suddenly 
drums  and  sunlight  and  the  pa- 
geantry of  imperial  violence:  an 
admirable  contrast,  and  one  just 
suited  for  the  stage.  So  you  see 
I  shall  just  be  in  the  humour  to 

Page  49 


consider  Diana  of  the  Ephesi- 
ans. 

ever  your  faithful  friend 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

I  shall  be  in  London  shortly, 
if  I  can;  I  shall  seek  rooms  at 
the  Paddington  Hotel,  where 
my  people  were,  so  that  on  the 
first  opportunity  I  can  come 
along  and  see  you;  if  you  can,  I 
should  like  to  see  you  alone,  but 
of  course,  that  must  be  how  it 
can.  I  shall  see  you,  and  S.C.  & 
show  Clarke  my  carcase  &  lift 
coins  from  Portfolio,  and  then 
slowly  north  by  easy  stages.  And 
O!  if  I  could  get  into  a  sort  of 
clean  white  bed  in  an  airy  room, 
and  sleep  for  months,  and  be 
wakened  in  mid  July  by  birds 
and  the  shadows  of  leaves  in  the 
room,  and  rise  and  dress  myself 
and  be  quite  well  and  strong 
and  find  that  dozens  of  things 
had  been  dreams  and  were  gone 
away  for  ever! 

R.  L.  S. 

Page  SO 


One  determining  factor  in 
Stevenson's  resolute  emigration 
from  home  in  1879  often  has  been 
overlooked:  his  desire  of  facing 
the  world  alone  and  to  paddle  his 
own  canoe.  While,  as  is  common- 
ly asserted,  a  considerable  motive 
of  knight-errantry  was  the  imme- 
diate impulse,  the  young  man  had 
scarcely  landed  in  America  than 
he  felt  in  his  bodily  freedom  the 
anticipation  of  a  still  more  desir- 
able, and  even  necessary,  social  in- 
dependence. 

It  was  a  terrible  experience, 
more  terrible  even  than  the  pub- 
lished letters  reveal.  But  in  all 
we  know  about  it  we  see  the  devel- 
opment of  mental  traits,  attitudes, 
and  habits  in  the  young  man, 
which  not  only  characterized  him 
but  afiford  an  example  to  every- 
body for  all  time.  The  funda- 
mental trait  is  his  readiness  to  un- 
derstand the  persons  with  whom 

Page  51 


circumstances  brought  him  into 
contact,  to  deal  with  them  on  the 
basis  of  their,  rather  than  his  own, 
qualifications,  to  be  a  friend  to 
them.  As  time  passed,  this  be- 
came more  than  a  trait,  it  grew  in- 
to a  habit,  a  part  of  the  man  him- 
self. Stevenson,  in  his  first  letter 
to  Colvin  after  his  arrival  in  Cali- 
fornia, tells  of  having  been  be- 
friended by  an  old  angora-goat 
rancher  and  his  men.  Immediately 
he  constitutes  himself  teacher  to 
the  ranch  children,  the  mother 
being  away  from  home,  sick. 
How  sick  he  himself  was,  we 
learn  from  this  little  sigh  at  the 
end  of  the  letter:  "I  should  say  to 
you — pray  for  me.  I  am  obliged 
to  lie  down  to  write,  for  reasons 
best  known  to  my  heart." 

The  Monterey  circle  of  friends 
hardly  would  rival  in  social  dis- 
tinction the  humblest  party  of  his 
admirers  now.     There  was   San- 

Page  52 


chez,  the  keeper  of  a  saloon,  and 
Bronson,  the  local  editor;  there 
was  an  Italian  fisherman,  and  Au- 
gustin  Dutra.  Then,  there  was  old 
Simoneau,  in  his  little  white- 
washed room.  Each  one  was  a 
friend,  counting  in  Stevenson's 
world  for  some  quality  which  he, 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  discov- 
ered in  his  friend  and  developed, 
made  much  of,  enlarged  upon,  ver- 
ified before  the  world. 

He  made  the  difficulties  which 
surrounded  him,  strictly  his  own. 
"Nobody,"  he  says,  "would  write 
for  advice  at  six  weeks  post,"  so  he 
kept  for  a  while  his  own  counsel. 
"My  present  trouble  is  one  in 
which  no  one  can  help  me;  till  my 
own  common  sense  can  see  the 
right  path."  The  upshot  was  an 
inner  satisfaction  with  the  course 
taken,  in  spite  of  all  his  privations: 
"O  Colvin,  you  don't  know  how 
much  good  I  have  done  myself." 

Page  53 


The  letter  of  January  lo,  1880, 
famous  for  a  detailed  description 
of  his  daily  life  in  San  Francisco, 
contains  the  following  conclusion, 
till  now  unpublished,  which  brings 
out  the  contrast  between  his  life  at 
home,  unhappy  as  it  was  in  various 
ways,  and  the  routine  of  a  penni- 
less emigrant  subsisting  on  coffee 
and  rolls:  ''The  mere  contempla- 
tion of  a  life  so  vile  is  more  than 
enough  for  a  professing  Christian; 
comment  could  only  pierce  it  with 
loathsome  details — ."    Every  emi- 
grant some  time  has  shared  this 
feeling.  Still,  his  determination  to 
fight  his  own  battle  remained  firm. 
When,  on  the  morning  of  January 
23,    1880,     Stevenson    received    a 
message  announcing  that  a   hun- 
dred   Pounds    Sterling   had   been 
sent  by  telegram,  he  hardly  knew 
whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry.     Sur- 
mising it  came   from   Colvin    he 
wrote:     "Had  I  required  money, 

Page  54 


should  I  not  have  asked  it?  My 
dear  old  man,  I  would  take  a  pres- 
ent from  (say)  the  Duke  of  Argyll 
and  be  damned  glad  of  it."  But: 
.  .  .  "have  I  not  brought  trouble 
enough  on  other  people?  Do  not 
make  me  hate  myself  outright  as  a 
curse  to  all  who  love  me.  My 
concern  is  to  see  how  I  can  do  best 
for  myself — ;  I  have  taken  my  own 
way,  and  I  mean  to  try  my  best  to 
walk  it.  If  this  money  is  from  you, 
it  is  not  income  but  capital,  any- 
way; and  it  goes  into  the  bank,  not 
to  be  touched  but  in  case  of  sick- 
ness. It  is  my  income,  what  I 
make  with  these  two  hands,  that  I 
care  about,  and  that  I  mean,  please 
God,  to  support  myself  and  my 
wife." 

Mark  these  last  words.  Many 
a  poet  would  state  his  case  differ- 
ently; would  commiserate  with 
himself  and  complain  about  the 
hard,  cold  world.  It  is  the  com- 
pare 55 


mon  course  to  take,  and  who  can 
quarrel  with  the  man  that  does! 
For,  as  he  puts  it  almost  jokingly 
three  years  later:  "It  is  dreadful 
to  be  a  great  big  man,  and  not  be 
able  to  buy  bread."  At  that  time  a 
hundred  Pounds  was  offered  for 
"Treasure  Island;"  —  scarcely  the 
price  now  paid  by  the  collector  for 
a  page  of  manuscript  in  the  au- 
thor's hand,  signed. 

Stevenson's  readiness  to  under- 
stand persons,  and  the  facility 
with  which  he  met  and  became  an 
active  participant  even  of  the 
strangest  episodes  in  a  tropical 
fairyland,  are  unique  in  the  annals 
of  modern  literature.  A  host  of 
persons  not  otherwise  interested  in 
biographical  details  about  favorite 
authors,  have  become  quite  fa- 
miliar with  the  daily  life  of  the 
family  at  Vailima,  and  with  the 
history  of  Samoa.     Election  rab- 

Page  56 


bles  in  Podunk,  Indiana,  or  Chi- 
cago, Illinois,  have  been  obscured, 
at  least  temporarily,  by  the  issues 
of  Malietoa  and  Mataafa.  The 
Mataafa  party  still  is  strong  in 
Kentucky.  Everybody  who  knows 
his  way  intelligently  in  Philadel- 
phia also  could  ride  from  Vailima 
along  the  road  of  shifting  sun  and 
shadow  into  Apia,  and  stop  at  the 
shop  of  Mr.  Moors — that  fine  Ja- 
nus of  a  trader,  whose  front  eleva- 
tion shows  us  a  merchant  of  the 
highest  type,  while,  when  we  turn 
him  about,  we  grasp  the  hand  of  a 
literary  gentleman  and  a  philoso- 
pher. We  hardly  would  invite 
Chief  Justice  Cedarkrantz  or  Ba- 
ron Senfft  von  Pilsach  to  spend 
Sunday  with  us,  but  Tuimalealii- 
fagu,  if  he  should  ring  our  door- 
bell, would  be  certain  of  the  best 
we  could  afiford.  In  thought  and 
intention  we  have  offered  our 
choicest  cigars  to  old  King  Malie- 

Page  57 


toa  and  called  up  our  best  manners 
in  saluting  the  taupou  of  Matautu. 
What  would  we  not  have  given  to 
be  able  to  sit  down  to  one  of  the 
feasts  spread  on  the  broad  and 
hospitable  veranda  of  Vailima! 
Would  the  road  be  too  steep,  the 
cliffs  too  bare,  the  tangle  of  under- 
brush and  creepers  too  impenetra- 
ble, to  prevent  us  from  ascending 
Mount  Vaea  to  its  very  top  and 
lay  our  tribute  of  flowers  on  the 
grave  of  the  man  who  stirred  our 
hearts  if  not,  indeed,  stabbed  our 
spirits  broad  awake? 

Time  and  chance  may  be  here 
and  now  to  tell  a  story  not  gener- 
ally known,  of  Stevenson's  circle. 
One  of  the  close  friends  of  the 
Vailima  household  was  the  Hon. 
James  Mulligan,  then  Consul 
General  of  the  United  States  in 
Samoa,  and  author  of  the  famous 
poem  "In  Kentucky,"  and  an  ar- 
dent collector  of  books.    One  ver- 

Page  58 


sion  of  the  story  is  given  by  Mr. 
Moors,  in  his  excellent  account, 
"With  Stevenson  in  Samoa,"  1910, 
pages  58-59.  Mr.  Mulligan,  with- 
out objecting  to  the  main  facts,- in- 
sisted on  making  his  own  point, 
and  for  this  reason  his  version  can- 
not be  neglected. 

Jack  Buckland,  the  original  of 
Tommy  Haddon  in  The  Wrecker, 
had  one  of  Stevenson's  books 
which  was  autographed  by  the  au- 
thor. This  book  formed  exactly 
one-half  of  Buckland's  library. 
Mulligan  borrowed  the  inscribed 
book  and  could  not  persuade  him- 
self to  part  with  it.  He  vested  him- 
self with  a  trustee's  power.  Months 
after,  when  Jack  Buckland  wanted 
to  give  the  book  to  a  mere  chance 
acquaintance,  he  asked  its  return, 
and  Mulligan  evaded  the  question. 
"He"  —  continues  Mr.  Mulligan 
in  a  private  memorandum — "pest- 
ered the  life  out  of  me  for  its  re- 
Page  59 


turn.  I  professed  to  have  lost  it. 
He  did  not  believe  my  profession 
and  became  insistent.  Then  his 
sweetheart,  a  handsome  and  good 
half-caste  girl,  Lizzie  Johnston, 
having  become  possessed  of  one  of 
these  awful  autograph  albums, 
took  a  notion  that  she  wanted 
twelve  autographs  of  President 
Cleveland, — and  Jack  agreed  that 
if  I  would  furnish  the  autographs, 
that  he  might  give  them  to  her,  he 
would  quit-claim  the  book  and  I 
might  keep  it.  I  gave  him  the 
Cleveland  autographs."  Then 
comes  the  point  of  the  story,  which 
shall  remain  unwritten,  as  it  is  evi- 
dent to  all  good  Irishmen,  whether 
Hibernian  or  American! 

It  fell  to  Mr.  Mulligan's  share 
in  life  to  announce  the  death  of 
Mr.  Stevenson  in  America,  and  he 
arose  to  the  occasion  by  addressing 
to  the  State  Department  the  fol- 
lowing telegram: 

Page  60 


It  is  with  profound  sorrow 
and  a  sincere  sense  of  direct  per- 
sonal loss  that  I  report  the  sud- 
den and  wholly  unexpected 
death  of  the  distinguished  au- 
thor and  great  novelist,  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson,  which  took 
place  at  his  residence,  Vailima, 
near  this  place,  at  8:io  p.m.  on 
Monday,  the  3rd  instant,  from 
a  stroke  of  apoplexy  received 
about  an  hour  and  a  half  before 
while  seated  at  his  own  hospit- 
able table. 

Aside  from  his  world-wide 
reputation  in  literature,  Mr. 
Stevenson  was  easily  the  first 
citizen  of  Samoa  and  the  center 
of  its  social  life.  As  is  so  widely 
known,  he  was  very  frail,  but 
within  the  last  two  months  had 
become  stronger  and  apparently 
more  vigorous  than  ever  before. 

His  hospitality  was  on  a 
splendid  scale  and  was  equally 
constant  and  unfaltering.  A 
British  subject  himself,  he  was 
surrounded  by  his  family  of 
American   citizens,   and  it  was 

Page  61 


doubtful  if  on  the  whole  he  was 
not  in  sentiment  and  thought  as 
much  American  as  British. 

The  last  manifestation  of  his 
elegant  hospitality  was,  peculi- 
arly enough,  a  dining  in  cele- 
bration of  our  American 
Thanksgiving  Day,  which  oc- 
curred exactly  four  days  before 
his  death,  and  at  which,  in  re- 
sponse to  a  toast  to  his  health,  he 
spoke  at  length  of  his  admira- 
tion of  the  American  festival  of 
Thanksgiving  and  proceeded  in 
a  spirit  of  religious  sentiment  to 
recount  the  many  blessings  he 
had  to  be  grateful  for.  His  re- 
marks were  at  length,  full  of 
genuine  feeling,  and  almost  pro- 
phetic of  the  end  that  lay  so 
near. 

His  remains  were  interred  on 
the  very  summit  of  the  moun- 
tain overlooking  his  late  home 
at  I  o'clock  yesterday,  whither 
they  were  borne  with  infinite 
difficulty  by  the  willing  hands 
of  a  great  number  of  Samoans, 
who  recognized  in  his  death  the 

Page  62 


last  champion  of   their  people 
and  country. 

Stevenson's  marvelous  powers  of 
expression  reach  a  climax  in  his 
Footnote  to  History.  In  this 
book  he  not  only  rendered  great 
service  to  his  adopted  country  and 
people,  but  drew  for  all  time  a 
picture  of  the  mean  and  miserable 
management  of  remote  tropical 
colonies  by  modern  imperial  gov- 
ernments. He  reveals  in  the  mi- 
crocosm of  Samoa  all  the  trickery 
and  trumpery  of  faithless  diplo- 
mats in  contradistinction  to  the 
serenity,  the  innate  honesty,  of  the 
common  people  subject  to  the  ma- 
chinations of  self-appointed  mas- 
ters. God  help  any  "dependency" 
falling  under  the  domination  of 
such  a  combination  asCedarkrantz 
and  von  Pilsach!  Imagine  a  chief 
justice  of  Samoa  presiding  over  a 
court    whose     proceedings     were 

Page  63 


stipulated  to  be  conducted  in  Eng- 
lish, although  he  could  scarcely 
speak  a  word  of  Shakespeare's 
language  and  had  never  seen  a 
law-book  in  his  life.  He  declined 
to  open  his  court  for  a  year,  until 
he  could  pick  up  information  and 
find  out  what  it  all  meant. 

The  petty  meanness,  the  fatal  of- 
ficial ugliness  of  it  all! 

There  is  in  existence  a  rare  and 
curious  pamphlet  which  serves  as 
an  appendix  to  the  Footnote  and  to 
Mr.  Moors'  manly  defense  of  "the 
great  old  man  of  Samoa;" — it 
bears  the  title  The  Cry  of  Mataafa 
for  his  People,  and  was  printed  in 
Auckland  in  1899.  It  shows  all 
the  little  traits  of  true  honor  and 
patriotism  which  made  the  old 
King  so  dear  to  Stevenson.  It  also 
shows  that  if  Samoa  as  a  center  of 
native  civilization  and  enlighten- 
ment, disappears,  being  replaced 
by  a  highly  governed  and  admin- 

Page  64 


istered  colony  of  Mongolian-Sa- 
moan  half-breeds,  the  disappear- 
ance of  all  that  bound  Stevenson  to 
Samoa  with  a  friendship  as  deep 
as  death,  will  have  been  owing  to 
interference  by  foreign  powers, 
whose  efforts  were  worthy  of  bet- 
ter purposes. 

All  readers  of  A  Footnote  to 
Hitory  will  be  interested  in  Ma- 
taafa's  appeal.  As  it  was  printed 
in  a  remote  place  and  thus  has  be- 
come known  but  to  a  limited  circle 
of  readers,  we  reproduce  it  here 
from  Judge  Mulligan's  copy.  (See 
Appendix  I.) 

In  their  ideal  views  of  right  and 
wrong;  in  their  estimate  of  men 
and  events,  the  Samoan  king  and 
the  Scotch  patrician  met  and  sym- 
pathized. The  exiled  wanderer  in 
the  South  Seas  became  an  immi- 
grant in  Samoa  on  the  basis  of  that 
humanity  which  unites  all  enlight- 
ened minds. 

Page  65 


Thus  Stevenson,  although  an 
immigrant  in  Samoa  and  a  stran- 
ger, never  became  exiled  from  his 
own  kind. 

The  ideal  immigrant  in  any 
country  is  the  person  who  accepts 
the  new  surroundings,  adopts  the 
new  conditions  of  thought  and  con- 
duct, makes  the  best  of  life  as  he 
finds  it,  enters  whole-souled  into 
his  duties  to  a  new  form  of  society, 
shows  faith  in  the  affairs  of  his 
adopted  land,  and  makes  use  of  his 
racial  inheritance  and  early  ac- 
quirements to  enlighten  his  new 
circle.  If  this  tentative  outline  of 
a  great  problem  is  true,  Stevenson 
was  an  ideal  immigrant.  It  is  an 
irregularity  for  anybody  to  leave 
the  land  of  his  birth,  memories  and 
native  language.  The  temptation 
always  to  make  comparison,  is  pre- 
sent at  every  turn.  To  the  native 
Scot,   San  Francisco  is  as  strange 

Page  66 


and  wild  as  the  South  Sea  Islands. 
It  requires  philosophy  and  a  strong 
will  to  overcome  the  consequences 
of  this  irregularity,  to  choke  down 
comparisons,  to  burn  bridges  in 
one's  life  no  longer  used,  and  to 
use  such  as  are  traveled  to  advan- 
tage. 

Charles  Warren  Stoddard  has 
pointed  out  that  Stevenson's  ven- 
ture in  the  South  Seas  laid  upon 
him  —  Stevenson  —  the  burden  of 
proving  his  moral  integrity.  The 
tropics  afford  the  greatest  oppor- 
tunity for  the  requisite  test.  The 
tropics  invite  a  peculiar  philoso- 
phic languor,  but  also  afford  the 
opportunity  for  a  broadened  vision 
and  the  display  of  superior  mer- 
its.   Did  Stevenson  stand  the  test? 

He  did,  but  not  altogether  in  the 
way  Stoddard  expected.  His  art, 
it  must  be  admitted,  took  no  color 
from  the  gorgeous  display  about 
him.    But  he  came — and  went — in 

Page  67 


a  manner  wholly  different  from 
the  usual  foreign  invasion.  There 
was  no  kinship  between  him  and 
"that  insalubrious  old  marauder, 
Captain  Cook,"  and  his  mildewed 
crew;  he  was  as  far  removed  from 
them  as  he  was  from  the  modern 
missionaries  and  the  politico-pira- 
tic zelotes  of  the  Great  Powers,  the 
beach-combers,  the  exploiters.  It 
is  not  so  much  Stevenson's  virtue 
that  he  presented  us  with  faithful- 
ly drawn  types  of  white  as  well  as 
brown  men  peculiar  to  Oceania,  or 
with  the  most  exquisitely  pencilled 
sketches  of  land  and  sea;  it  is 
in  his  stories  of  Scottish  life  and 
by  his  complete  reversion  to  his 
own  native  type,  that  he  met,  and 
stood,  the  test  of  moral  integrity. 
No  wonder  that  Rahero  could 
be  written  in  the  tropics,  but 
The  Master  of  Ballantrae,  Catri- 
ona,  St.  Ives,  Weir  of  Hermiston! 
And    also    the    Vailima  Prayers. 

Page  68 


These  works  prove,  as  nothing  else 
proves  it,  that  a  true  man's  heart 
never  is  at  rest  very  far  from  home, 
but  that  even  at  the  very  end  of  the 
world  the  life  of  the  soul  sinks  its 
roots  even  deeper  than  before  into 
the  native  soil.  There  is  a  Samoa, 
there  is  an  island  of  rest,  joy  and 
sweet  relaxation  at  the  world's  end 
for  every  one.  But  the  ultimate 
test  of  a  man's  moral  value  is  that 
when  he  grows  into  greatness,  as 
was  the  case  with  Stevenson;  and 
chiefs,  kings  and  other  good  men 
crowd  in  to  listen  to  his  wisdom 
and  to  hear  the  music  of  his  voice; 
and  he  is  happy  over  his  good  for- 
tune,— that,  when  all  this  comes  to 
pass,  this  man  is  restless,  until 
somewhere  beyond  the  seas,  in  the 
old  home,  the  people  that  fostered 
him,  and  the  old  circle  of  friends 
of  the  early  years,  share  the  know- 
ledge of  the  victory  won. 

So  there  is  a  sweet  significance 

Page  69 


in  the  fact  that  forty  years  after 
Stevenson  wrote  his  Song  of  the 
Road,  with  its  rousing  motive 
"Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away," 
another  poet,  seeing  the  thread  of 
gold  in  his  own  life,  craved  the 
complement  to  that  song.  On 
March  i8,  1918,  Mr.  Charles 
Granger  Blanden,  of  Chicago, 
wrote  the  following  beautiful 
lines: 

You  sang  to  me,  one  distant  day, 
"Over  the  hills  and  far  away," 
A  sad  sweet  song  that  still  I  hear, 
After  how  many  a  vanished  year. 

I  pray  you  sing  once  more  to  me, 
No  song  to  set  the  spirit  free, 
But  one  to  cheer  the  weary  heart. 
After   the   soul    has   played   its 
part. 


Page  70 


Sing  me  a  song  that  tells  of  rest, 
For  love  at  last  has  found  its 

nest; 
Sing  me  a  song  of  happy  men: 
Over  the  Hills  and  Home 

Again. 


Page  71 


APPENDIX  I 

The  Cry  of  Mataafa 


THE  CRY  OF  MATAAFA 

On  behalf  of  my  people,  whom  I  love 
with  a  great  love,  I  beseech  the  Three 
Great  Powers  of  England,  Germany,  and 
the  United  States  of  America  to  listen  to 
my  voice  and  grant  my  prayer.  I  ask  and 
desire  nothing  for  myself.  My  years  can- 
not be  many,  for  now  I  am  old.  The  grave 
will  soon  enclose  me,  and  I  shall  be  no 
more.  But  the  people  who  have  loved  me 
long,  and  love  me  still,  will  live  for  many 
years  after  I  am  gone.  The  strong  men 
who  have  served  me  so  bravely  and  faith- 
fully, the  women  who  for  my  sake  have 
endured  many  hardships  and  privations,  and 
the  children  whose  laughter  and  sport  make 
the  villages  joyous  and  happy — these  will 
be  living  when  I  am  known  no  longer  in 
Samoa.  It  is  for  their  sakes  that  I  raise  my 
voice,  and  pray  that  the  Three  Great  Pow- 
ers, in  their  generosity  and  kindness,  will 
grant  my  request. 

Thrice  have  I  been  elected  King  of  Sa- 
moa, by  the  free  will  and  choice  of  the 
great  majority  of  the  people,  and  according 
to  our  own  laws  and  customs.    At  Faleula, 

Page  75 


1 888;  at  Vaiala,  in  1889;  and  at  MuH- 
nu'u,  in  1898,  the  people  asked  me  to  reign 
over  them.  When  the  people  asked  me  on 
the  last  occasion  to  become  their  King,  I 
thought  there  were  none  to  oppose  or  cause 
trouble,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  all  Samoa 
was  united.  I  was  not  eager  to  rule,  for  I 
had  been  five  years  in  exile  from  my  native 
land,  and  I  wished  to  live  peaceably  and 
quietly  in  Samoa  for  the  remainder  of  my 
life;  moreover.  Kings  of  Samoa  have  ever 
been  beset  with  dangers,  difficulties  and 
troubles.  But  I  believed  the  people  desired 
me  to  rule  over  them,  and  I  thought  that  I 
could  govern  them  in  such  a  way  that  all 
Samoa  would  be  happy,  contented,  and 
peaceful.  But  certain  evil  white  men  led  a 
portion  of  the  people  astray,  beguiling  them 
with  falsehoods  and  deceptive  promises. 
These  evil  men  persuaded  a  small  minority 
of  the  Samoans  to  choose  a  boy  as  King. 
They  forced  him,  against  his  will,  to  leave 
his  school  at  Leulumoega,  and  he  came  to 
Apia,  and  lived  in  the  houses  of  some  of  the 
white  men,  so  that  he  might  always  be 
under  their  control.  They  desired  him  to 
be  King,  so  that  they  might  do  with  him  as 
they  pleased,  for  their  own  selfish  purposes, 
and  not  for  the  good  of  Samoa. 

Page  76 


It  has  been  said  by  some  people,  that  be- 
fore I  left  Jaluit,  to  return  to  Samoa,  I 
signed  a  written  promise  not  to  concern  my- 
self with  Samoan  politics,  and  these  persons 
also  say  that  by  reason  of  this  promise  I 
could  not  be  rightfully  elected  King  of 
Samoa.  But  this  statement  is  not  true.  I 
did  not  promise  to  have  nothing  to  do  with 
politics  in  Samoa,  and  the  writing  which  I 
signed  does  not  contain  anything  that 
should  prevent  me  from  becoming  King  of 
Samoa,  after  the  death  of  Malietoa  Lau- 
pepa. 

I  believed,  also,  and  felt  sure,  that  the 
German  Government  no  longer  objected  to 
me  being  appointed  King.  And  this  being 
so,  I  cannot  understand  why  evil  and  de- 
signing white  men,  who  were  not  author- 
ized by  the  German  Government,  should 
make  an  objection  which  did  not  concern 
England  or  America,  but  only  Germany. 
But  the  Chief  Justice,  being  an  ignorant 
man,  and  also  not  upright,  listened  to  the 
lawyers,  who  spoke  with  many  deceptive 
words,  and  also  paid  great  heed  to  the  evil 
counsels  of  others,  and  declared  the  boy  to 
be  King  of  Samoa,  but  not  according  to  the 
laws  and  customs  of  Samoa;  for  such  a 
thing   has    never   been    known    in    Samoa; 

Page  77 


that  a  boy  should  be  clothed  with  the  power 
and  authority  of  a  High  Chief  or  King. 
It  was  an  unrighteous  judgment,  and 
against  the  wishes  of  the  majority  of  the 
Samoan  people.  Then  my  people  rose  up 
in  their  anger  and  indignation,  driving  the 
small  minority,  who  wished  the  boy  to  be 
King,  out  of  Apia,  and  establishing  a  Gov- 
ernment of  Samoa  at  Mulinu'u.  This 
Government  was  recognized  by  the  Consuls 
of  Great  Britain,  Germany,  and  the  United 
States  of  America,  in  the  name  of  the 
Three  Powers,  until  the  Powers  should  de- 
termine what  should  be  done  concerning  the 
unrighteous  decision  of  the  Chief  Justice. 
But  before  the  Three  Great  Powers  had 
time  to  consult  among  themselves  and  make 
their  Mashes  known,  the  American  Admiral 
commanded  me  to  submit  to  the  boy  whom 
the  Chief  Justice  had  unlawfully  declared 
to  be  King.  He  likewise  ordered  that  the 
Government  which  had  been  established  at 
Mulinu'u,  and  had  been  recognized  by  the 
Three  Great  Powers,  should  be  over- 
thrown, and  that  my  people  should  yield  to 
the  small  party  opposed  to  them.  He  also 
said  that  if  his  orders  were  not  obeyed  he 
would  fire  upon  the  people  at  Mulinu'u, 
who  could  not  resist,  with  his  great  guns 

Page  78 


and  small  guns.  These  orders  grieved  and 
astonished  the  people,  because  they  knew 
that  the  Great  Powers  had  not  ordered 
these  things  to  be  done,  but  that  all  these 
things  were  being  done  because  of  the  evil 
influence  of  certain  ofllicials  and  white  men. 
So  my  people  and  I  left  Mulinu'u  and  we 
went  into  the  bush.  Then  the  great  guns 
of  the  American  warships  and  the  British 
warships  shelled  the  town  of  Apia  and  the 
mountain  of  Vaea,  and  sent  armed  men 
ashore  to  hold  the  town.  After  this  there 
was  much  fighting,  and  many  of  my  people 
were  killed  and  wounded  by  the  guns 
which  fire  many  bullets,  like  the  drops  of 
rain  in  a  heavy  shower.  Some  of  the  white 
officers  and  men  were  slain  also,  and  for 
this  I  was  very  sorrowful,  for  I  desired  not 
that  any  should  be  killed.  Many  times 
when  the  white  soldiers  were  marching 
along,  my  people  were  on  each  side  of  them, 
unseen,  and  could  have  killed  many  of 
them,  but  they  let  them  pass  unharmed. 
Then  the  British  warships  proceeded  up 
and  down  the  coasts  of  Upolu  and  Savaii, 
shelling  many  towns  and  villages,  none  of 
which  could  defend  themselves,  for  the 
people  in  them  had  no  thought  of  fighting, 
being  nearly  all  old  men,  women,  children. 

Page  79 


and  pastors.  These  were  compelled  to  seek 
refuge  in  the  bush  and  in  the  churches ;  but 
even  these  sacred  buildings  were  not  safe, 
some  of  them  being  pierced  by  shells  and 
bullets,  and  there  was  great  trouble  and 
fear  amongst  the  people.  Then  white  of- 
ficers came  ashore  in  small  steamers  (steam 
launches)  and  boats,  landing  Samoan  war- 
riors, even  the  British  Consul  being  with 
the  officers,  and  carrying  a  sword  and  re- 
volver. The  white  officers  commanded  the 
Samoans  to  burn  down  the  houses  in  the 
towns  and  villages,  and  they  did  so,  leaving 
only  the  pastors'  houses  unharmed.  Many 
things  were  burned  in  the  houses.  They 
likewise  destroyed  many  plantations,  and 
they  also  destroyed  many  very  large  and 
valuable  boats,  the  building  of  which  had 
cost  many  thousands  of  dollars. 

In  consequence  of  the  destruction  of  their 
houses,  and  the  sacking  of  their  towns  and 
villages,  the  old  men,  the  women  and  the 
children  were  compelled  to  take  shelter  in 
the  bush,  residing  in  poor  huts,  which  were 
not  weather-proof,  and  were  in  unhealthy 
situations.  They  were  also  compelled  to 
subsist  on  unwholesome  and  unsuitable 
food.  In  consequence  of  these  things,  many 
of  these  old  men,  women,  and  children  have 

Page  80 


sickened  and  died,  causing  great  sorrow  and 
distress  in  almost  every  town  and  village. 
Even  now  the  people  are  living  in  tempo- 
rary houses  hastily  erected  in  the  towns  and 
villages,  and  subject  to  great  discomfort.  I 
humbly  implore  the  Great  Powers  to  regard 
with  compassion  my  people  in  their  trouble 
and  distress.  They  have  obeyed  the  High 
Commissioners  whom  the  Great  Powers 
have  sent  to  Samoa.  They  have  surrend- 
ered their  guns,  they  have  faithfully  com- 
plied with  all  that  the  High  Commissioners 
required  of  them,  and  they  are  resolved  to 
obey  the  Provisional  Government  establish- 
ed by  the  Commissioners  before  they  left 
Samoa. 

Though  my  people  are  subject  to  fre- 
quent insult  and  ill-treatment  from  the 
small  party  who  were  opposed  to  them — 
these  things  being  done  in  order  to  provoke 
them  to  renewed  strife — they  desire  to  live 
at  peace  with  all  Samoa.  If  the  bad  influ- 
ence of  a  few  evil-minded  white  people 
were  stopped,  by  these  men  being  removed 
from  the  country,  there  would  no  longer  be 
any  trouble,  for  then  all  Samoa  would  be 
at  peace.  I  rejoice,  and  my  people  are  glad, 
at  the  prospect  of  a  new  and  stable  Govern- 
ment for  Samoa.    H  the  Great  Powers  will 

Page  81 


send  good  men  to  take  charge  of  the  Gov- 
ernment and  not  those  who  care  only  for 
the  money  they  receive,  Samoa  will  become 
peaceful,  happy,  and  prosperous.  I  pray  to 
God  that  this  may  be  so,  for  I  love  my 
country  and  my  people  greatly. 

But  now  I  again  beseech  the  Great  Pow- 
ers, out  of  their  abundant  wealth,  to  grant 
my  people  some  compensation  for  the  great 
loss  and  damage  inflicted  upon  them.  To 
His  Majesty  the  German  Emperor  I  ap- 
peal, in  great  confidence  and  trust,  for  dur- 
ing the  trials  and  troubles  of  this  year  he 
and  his  Government  have  been  true  and 
steadfast  friends  of  my  people  and  myself, 
and  this  we  shall  ever  remember  with  deep 
and  abiding  gratitude.  To  President  Mc- 
Kinley  and  the  Government  of  the  United 
States  of  America  I  appeal,  for  that  great 
country  has  always  been  friendly  to  Samoa, 
and  has,  in  past  years,  assisted  and  strength- 
ened us  in  times  of  peril  and  tribulation. 
To  Her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria  and  the 
Government  of  Great  Britain  I  appeal,  for 
all  the  world  knows  the  Queen  to  be  good, 
kind,  and  humane,  and  the  British  Govern- 
ment has  always  been  ready  to  succour  the 
needy  and  help  the  weak  and  distressed  in 
all    countries.      To  the    great    peoples    of 

Page  82 


Germany,  America,  and  England  I  appeal, 
and  beseech  them  to  make  their  voices 
heard  in  our  behalf,  and  assist  my  people  in 
their  cause. 

The  smile  of  God  brightens  the  lives  of 
those  who  assist  the  injured  and  the  wrong- 
ed, and  the  blessings  of  those  whom  they 
relieve  and  assist  will  continually  follow 
them. 

(Signed)  o  J.  Mataafa 
Amaile,  Upolu,  Samoa, 

1 6th  August,  1899 


Page  83 


APPENDIX  II 

Three  Poems  in  Memory  of 
R.  L.  S. 

By 

Frederic  Smith 

To  travel  happily  is  a  better  thing  than 
to  arrive. — R.  L.  S. 


A  PARAPHRASE 
Better  the  pilgrim's  staff,  the  cheerful  song, 
The  distajit  hills  to  beckon  us  along, 
A  free  highway  and  the  wide  skj'  above, 
The  foot  to  travel  and  the  heart  to  love, 
Youth's  eager  fancies  and  the  morning  light, 
Than  the  high  festival  of  crowning  night. 

So  long  our  vision  shines,  our   hopes  be- 
friend, 
Better  the  journey  than  the  journey's  end. 
The  cozy  resting  place  that  shines  ahead 
Is  not  so  blessed  as  the  steps  we  tread. 
Better  a  mountain  streamlet  in  the  sun 
Than   a  still   pool   with   all  our   journeys 

done. 
Better  the  toil  and  stress  though  spent  in 

vain, 
Than  the  brief  joys  we  labour  to  obtain. 
The  flowers  we  stop  to  gather  by  the  way 
Before  our  journey's  end  are  thrown  away. 
But  all  the  joy  of  search  and  sight  is  ours, 
That  shall  go  with  us  though  we  lose  the 

flowers. 
Thrice  happy  he  who  learns  the  truth  I  tell. 
He  shall  arrive  at  last,  and  all  be  well. 
(Unpublished.) 

Page  87 


TO  R.  L.  S. 
Dear  Friend,  all  love,  that  love  unansvi^ered 
may, 
I  gave  to  thee — my  spirit  leapt  to  thine. 
Lured  by  the  spell  of  many  a  magic  line 
I  joined  thy  fellowship,  and  sailed  away 
To  glowing  isles,   where  golden   treasures 
lay. 
With  thee,  all  night,   I   lay  among  the 

pine, 
'Mid   dews   and    perfume   in    the    fresh 
starshine, 
Till  darkness  moved  and  thrilled  with  com- 
ing day. 

And  now  thou  liest  lone  on  Vaea's  height, 

The  visions  on  thine  eyes  we  may  not 

know. 

I  think  of  thee,  awake,  with  keen  delight, 

Hearing   the    forests   wave,    the    grasses 

grow, 
The  rush  of  spectral  breakers  far  below. 
Through    all    the    starry   splendor    of    the 
night. 

From  A  Chest  of  Viols,  1896. 


Page  88 


R.  L.  S. 
On  Reading  "Travels  With  A  Don- 
key." 
How  sweet  the  way  where  we  poor  mortals 
stray. 
When,   with   enlightened   eyes,   unveiled 

we  see 
Earth's  wondrous  beauty  and  her  mys- 
tery! 
Nature  revealed,  a  living  thing  alway, 
Alert  in  listening  night  or  bountiful  day 
Moves  to  our  mood  with  finest  sympathy, 
With  watchful  service  sets  our  spirit  free ; 
Sings  in  our  joy  or  wipes  our  tears  away. 

Surely  the  fault  is  ours,  so  long  we  rest 

Content  with  darkened  vision  at  the  gate, 
When  we  might  stand  within,  in  reverence 
drest, 
With  sense  refined,  with  subtle  joy  elate, 
In  that  hushed  portal  where  such  won- 
ders wait. 
As  they  may  see  whom  God  has  fitly  blest. 
(Unpublished.) 


Page  89 


APPENDIX  III 

Facsimile 

OF 

Letter  in  Latix 


Mr.  Payson  S.  Wild  has  been  kind 
enough  to  transliterate  the  Latin  portion  of 
this  letter  and  to  elucidate  its  formal  diffi- 
culties. The  following  are  Mr.  Wild's 
comments : 

Brebisissimus.  Doubtless  coined  from 
the  French  brebis,  a  sheep.  The  follow- 
ing sentence  carries  out  the  figure. 

Principessa.     Italian  form  for  princess. 

Flores.  As  it  appears  in  the  text  this 
word  is  susceptible  of  two  other  readings, 
namely,  flans,  and  flares;  but  neither  of 
these  can  possibly  be  construed.  Further- 
more Stevenson's  classical  training  was  not 
carried  far,  as  we  know,  and  so  we  must 
expect  to  find  him  using  common  and  well 
known  words  in  a  "stunt"  of  this  kind. 
Flores  is  a  common  and  well  known  word, 
whereas  the  others  are  not.  The  probable 
meaning  of  the  sentence,  which  is  somewhat 
blind,  is  this:  "Yesterday,  off  in  the  dark 
on  his  bed,  he  is  reported  to  have  wept  co- 
piously becaues  the  Princess  forbade  him, 
Juno  fashion,  ever  again  to  present  her  with 
flowers."  Little  can  be  said  for  the  latin- 
ity  of  this  sentence. 

More.  Mare  is  the  more  obvious  read- 
ing, but  fails  utterly  in  meaning. 

Degainbolaius  sum.  This  needs  no  oth- 
er comment  than  the  author's  own. 

P.  s.  w. 

Page  93 


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